


Make It Work

by brokenlittleboy



Series: Commissions [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asexual Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demisexual Sam, Demisexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Relationship Issues, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Sam's finally got what he's wanted all his life, and it doesn't feel real. He's always wanted Dean, and Dean wants him back. They have their hits and misses, but for the most part, it's great. All Sam needs is the road and his brother. He only starts to wonder about if it can last when his and Dean's sexual habits clash--Sam identifies as somewhere on the ace spectrum, and Dean's hypersexual. Purely emotional hurt/comfort.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a commission for the sweet Katja (sparktoafire on tumblr), thank you so much, beebs!! I love your idea so much <3

 

Sam has been riding a high for an almost concerning amount of time now. He never thought that this life was possible for him, not--not with Dean. With Dean being with him.

 

Sam’s sort of been harboring a massive lump of complicated and all-encompassing feelings for his brother since he was around twelve. He’s always craved Dean, they’ve always been closer than any married couple they’ve ever met, but the, uh, less (or more?)-than-brotherly feelings didn’t start until Sam was starting to feel stifled by the life he led in motels and cramped rentals, all paid for with fake credit cards.

 

He considers himself a fairly logical person, and definitely realistic, so he never acted on the feelings. It’d be insane. He loves Dean, obviously, and doing that would most certainly mean he’d lose him. Dean doesn’t feel the same. 

 

Except he did, and he does. Except they‘re so wonderfully and horribly wrapped around each other in the exact same way. 

 

Their first kiss didn’t go down exactly how he’d wanted it to--he’d been angsting about his powers, and had gotten emotional, confessing how scared he was and how much he needed Dean, and he’d made some off-handed remark about Dean being far better off without him around.

 

Something in Dean had snapped and he’d shoved Sam up against the wall, growling urgently at him with a choked-off, near-tears voice, urging Sam that he was good, that Dean needed him, too.

 

Sam guesses he’d been a little too transparent and vulnerable in that moment, all the shine coming out in his eyes like a full moon of brother love, because Dean had kissed him. Deeply, passionately, vigorously, spittle-flying-ly, all the great ways that are described in romance novels. 

 

Things had been a little fucky at first after that. They didn’t know where they stood. It only took a convenient near-death experience on a hunt after a few weeks filled with stilted conversations for both of them to make an important realization. They were still exactly as they were, still brothers, only more. The titanium foundation that made them “them” didn’t need to change at all. They hadn’t needed to think about that first kiss. It was natural.

 

They used that as a map for the world from that moment on. It wasn’t something to freak out about or feel disgusted about. They were linked to each other, they knew that. It got a lot easier after that.

 

Sam’s favorite fucking thing is how affectionate Dean has become. He’d been a bit scared at first that Dean would keep up a gruff exterior and bemoan all the cuddly-smoochy stuff, but Dean’s soft and careful way down deep where only Sam has ever been, and that side of him comes out more and more often now that they’re together. Dean wraps an arm around him when they’re watching movies, when they’re on the road, and even when they’re in diners. He even once introduced Sam as his boyfriend on a hunt. It was to get a closeted and scared witness to warm up to them, but still. It made Sam feel warm, too. Warm and fuzzy times several billions. 

 

The softness and the intimacy of the moments where it’s just them are the highlight of Sam’s day, of his week, of his life. He’s always craved a relationship like this, almost had it with Jess, and after her, he’d given up looking for it, only to walk right into it with his older brother.

 

They fall asleep in the same bed, curled around each other, murmuring secrets and nuzzling close. Dean holds Sam close and promises to never let him go. Kisses come at random, and Sam is grateful for each and every one.

 

So, yeah. A high. Sam’s in the prime of his life, he thinks. Shit never gets better than this. Sometimes he’s even a bit sad that most people don’t have an inseparable blood bond like he and Dean do. 

 

There’s just been one minor catch. 

 

Dean and Sam’s… erm… appetites, so to speak, clearly operate in fundamentally different ways.

 

Sam wouldn’t say he’s not sexual, he enjoys sex sometimes, but he guesses the major thing that separates him from most people is that he doesn’t want it often. “Rarely” would be a more apt description. He doesn't even want it in the same way most people do. It's not like some incredible imperative or mind blowing experience to him or anything. Sam’s body doesn’t respond to things in the same way Dean’s does. He’s sat down to watch porn multiple times and just been fascinated or completely neutral, never aroused. Nothing really “revs his engines” per se, it’s more--it’s relationships. Call him sappy, call him cheesy, he wouldn’t offer a correction. It’s not that he’s delicate or shy or anything- he gets quite active and flexible when he does have sex, he’s been told- but he must not have the same set of batteries that most other people do. His sexual drive is more like a sexual breeze (that varies in intensity) that happens to blow about once in a blue moon. Or even less frequently.

 

And when it blows, it’s because romance is in the air, not because he saw a picture of a naked person in a magazine. 

 

Sometimes normal people confuse him. Dean most certainly. Sam’s about ninety percent certain that Dean can be classified as “hypersexual.” He’d learned about sex and gender at Stanford. He’d met Jess in that class. She was an activist, a proud bisexual, and had taught him more about himself than that class ever could’ve. She never chided him for his tendencies, and gave him space when he needed it, and was perfectly content when Sam only ever wanted to cuddle.

 

So Sam has figured out that he’s pretty much on the opposite end of that whole spectrum: he’s thinking he’s a “demisexual,” but he’s not sure. “Asexual” could fit too.

 

Still, the most important part is that whatever the hell he is, Dean isn’t.

 

And it’s sort of becoming a problem. 

 

As their relationship progresses, Dean’s gropiness progresses in kind. Whenever they make out, Dean gets all huffy and grunty, shifting his legs around, hands pushing lower and lower on Sam’s body, squeezing his ass. 

 

It comes to a head on a Friday night. They’d finished the hunt a night ago- a salt and burn that went off without a hitch- and decided to stay an extra day to have a moment to themselves and to celebrate their good fortune. 

 

Dean suggests they go out to a bar, and Sam is game. They pack themselves into the Impala and find a reliable joint on Main Street. The inside is crowded with bodies and tables and music, and smells heavily of cigarette smoke and peanuts. 

 

They get themselves a booth and order a couple of beers. Dean squeezes himself into the same side of the booth as Sam, breathing suggestive little jokes into Sam’s ear that Sam knows he is supposed to be responding to with dark eyes and pink cheeks. 

 

Sam snarks back instead, hoping Dean would catch the hint, but it only makes Dean chuckle more, shuffle closer, and slip his hand further up Sam’s leg and closer to the inner seam of his jeans. 

 

Sam is burning up for all the wrong reasons. It is getting more and more obvious that Dean is expecting him to “put out” tonight, and that this is a date. Sam’s theory is only further solidified when Dean keeps offering Sam fries and feeding them to him. Dean never shares fries--he’s a food hound. 

 

Dean orders them a few shots and Sam’s nerves are too fried for him to down more than one, but Dean doesn’t notice, due to him completing all of the rest of the shots. By the time it gets late, Dean’s more plastered than not, hanging onto Sam as they stumble their way out of the bar.

 

Sam drives them home. Dean’s all over him, hand pressed between Sam’s legs. His voice is slurred and unintelligible, but Sam makes out some incredibly sexual words and knows Dean’s rambling about what he plans to do to Sam.

 

A big stone settles itself deep in Sam’s tummy. He knows Dean loves him. Yet for some reason, his brain interprets Dean’s vulgarity as a purely sexual thing, that to Dean, Sam’s a hot ass and nothing else and he needs no other reason to fuck him. He knows it’s not true. He tries not to listen to his brain.

 

It’s just… he’d always fantasized about knowing Dean’s lips for years, being able to read his every thought, sleeping entwined together, and having a romantic, perfect first time, intense and toe-curling and sweaty, but rooted in the look in each other’s eyes, not anything else.

 

He shouldn’t feel all shaken up by it. His dream has already come true. He no longer questions if Dean really wants him around--he knows it now. He’s more content than he’s ever been before.

 

But he can’t keep dancing around Dean’s advances like this. He’s afraid of how Dean might respond if he puts a stop to it, though, knows things might become awkward and forced again after that, and that thought makes Sam a little nauseous.

 

He herds Dean into the motel room, trying to gently usher Dean to his bed and get him to strip down, drink some water, and conk out. Dean’s having other ideas, though, and snakes a hand around Sam’s wrist when he least expects it, dragging Sam down on top of him.

 

Dean laughs, looking up at Sam with droopy-lidded eyes. He’s breathing heavily, and Sam is mostly confident that the thing he feels against his thigh is not a flashlight in Dean’s pocket.

 

“Dean,” Sam says, “you gotta get some sleep.”

 

“Oh, we’re gonna sleep,” Dean says, his voice all rumbly and low, much more sexual than Sam’s ever heard it.

 

Sam sighs. “Dean--”

 

“Hush, baby,” Dean says, and goes straight to the button of Sam’s jeans before Sam can say anything.

 

Dean pops open the zipper and Sam’s too shocked to respond. Dean reaches into Sam’s pants, slips his hand deeper, and finds softness.

 

Dean laughs again, something of pure mirth this time. “Oh, Sammy,” he says, “I didn’t know you had that much to drink.”

 

Sam opens to his mouth to say something, anything, he doesn’t quite know what, but Dean falls back onto the bed before he gets a chance to form a single sentence.

 

Dean passes right the fuck out, and Sam untangles himself from his brother and silently pulls his pants off all the way. He does his business in the bathroom and steps out of the room, turning the lights off. He makes sure there’s a glass of water on the nightstand for Dean to reach for when his head inevitably pounds right out of his skull when he wakes up. He stands above Dean, frowning, heart hurting, and turns around to climb into the other bed.

 

It’s the first time he’s slept alone in weeks.

 

***

 

In the morning, Dean handles his hangover well. He’s a seasoned warrior. He downs Sam’s proffered glass of water and walks with clumsy, stomping movements to the bathroom. He takes a long shower. 

 

When he comes back out in a billow of steam, he looks a little more alive. His eyes are still red, and he he makes a beeline for the duffel, downing a couple of pain pills, so Sam knows he’s not perfect, but still. He’s okay. 

 

The knot in Sam’s chest loosens fractionally. He wonders if Dean can remember last night, and if he does, how he feels about it. He might not have gotten Sam’s hints in the inebriated moment, but does he now, looking back? What does it all mean?

 

Well, Sam thinks to himself, heaving out a long sigh, they’re definitely going to have to talk about this.

 

He lets it rest all the way through breakfast, waiting for Dean to recover more from his night of drinking and hitting on Sam. In a way, he supposes he should feel pleased. Dean only acts like a chauvinistic animal when he’s really into someone. And while it isn’t ideal… it’s, uh, it’s sweet, in it’s own way, that Dean is so clearly into Sam.

 

After a lifetime of being short, lanky, and awkward, Sam knows he has some confidence issues, so Dean thinking he’s good looking is a little bit like a balm for his conscience. He holds Dean’s opinion in the highest regard, and Dean holds him in high regard. It’s nice.

 

Repeating those thoughts in his head like an anxious mantra makes Sam feel marginally better. No matter the outcome of his discussion, he’ll always have Dean. He doesn’t think an issue like incestuous sexual habits could ever fracture them, at least not permanently. 

 

Dean gets a little more alive around lunch time. Better get it over with. 

 

Dean’s spread out on the bed, glass of water in hand, watching a nature documentary without taking much of it in, eyes glazed over. This is Dean in his natural habitat, when he feels safe, and comfortable, and doesn’t have a creepy-crawly of one of the hundreds of varieties breathing down his neck.

 

Sam sits on the bed next to him and Dean immediately shuffles over to accommodate him. He slings an arm around Sam’s shoulder, grunting. He nods his head toward the television. “You know Tapirs have prehensile penises?” he asks.

 

“Huh,” Sam says, feigning interest.

 

“It means they can move ‘em, like a muscle,” Dean adds. “They just showed some footage of a tapir using his massive prehensile member to itch his stomach. Wanna find out if I can do that too, Sammy?” He shoots Sam a cheesy, toothy grin, filled with so much innuendo that Sam can’t help rolling his eyes and cracking a smile. Clearly satisfied with the response, Dean winks at him, raising his shoulders and eyebrows in a ridiculous wave, and continues watching the documentary.

 

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Sam says in a single breath, after drawing together all of his courage reserves.

 

Dean shoots him a look. “My prehensile penis?”

 

Sam scoffs, glaring at him. “No, you--stop watching that.”

 

“Because you know I have a lot to brag about. Many ladies have come before you… heh… and left satisfied.”

 

“Dean, as truly witty as you are…” Sam trails off. “I’m actually serious.”

 

Dean gives him another look, careful and considering, and turns down the volume on the television. The narrator’s soulful tale of the life of a sexually frustrated tapir disappears from Sam’s awareness.

 

Sam bites at the inside of his cheek. “Do you remember last night at all?”

 

Dean narrows his eyes. “I think I do…  but you’re gonna have to refresh my memory, Sammy, did something happen last night? We good?”

 

Sam shrugs. “In a way,” he says. “You, uh, you pulled me on top of you and reached into my pants.”

 

“Are you critiquing my sexual form? Some slack, Sammy. I was drunk.”

 

“That’s the point,” Sam moans. He can’t keep the frustration out of his voice. “All night long, I didn’t respond to your bait, I didn’t flirt back, and you still palmed my dick. I didn’t have limp-dick either, Dean, because I wasn’t drunk.” He emphasises the last three words, stressing the syllables.

 

Dean masks his expression, turning to face Sam head-on. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“You were drunk. I. I wanted to have this conversation while you were sober.”

 

Dean lets out a whistle. “Have what conversation, Sam? Should I be bracing myself?”

 

“No,” Sam assures him. “Just… fuck, I don’t know how to say this.”

 

“You don’t want to have sex with me,” Dean states.

 

“No, I do. I just don’t operate like you, Dean. I mean, you get a boner if you see two round boulders too close together.”

 

“Hey.” Dean sticks his finger in Sam’s face. “That was one time.”

 

“Still,” Sam persists. “You… watch porn. You have one night stands all the time, which, hey, I’m not ragging on you for that, but you know me, Dean. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

 

Dean makes a noise. “You seriously don’t even watch porn? I know I’ve joked about that before, but dude, I didn’t know. Why?”

 

Dean sounds like he can’t possibly fathom a guy being disinterested in low-production videos of heterosexual couples where the girl doesn’t even get off. “That’s not what does it for me. It’s not that I don’t want to have sex or that I don’t like it. You know I’ve had relationships before.”

 

Dean nods, waving Sam on.

 

Sam takes a breath. “You have a very active downstairs brain. Sometimes I seriously think you use it more than your upstairs brain. I’m the opposite. Active upstairs, not so much downstairs. I like to get to know people, really know them, y’know? I don’t want it to just be a bodies thing. I want it to happen because it’s you n’ me.”

 

Sam shrugs helplessly, face burning. Dean’s called him a girl a million times before and he’s not exactly excited for what Dean will say to him when he’s done rambling. “Listen, I know that you fuck a lot more than I do. That never bothered me. But now that we’re in a relationship… well, I can’t do that. At lot of the time, I don't want to be touched sexually at all. And if that’s a deal breaker, then I guess that’s that.” Sam shrugs again. “For the record, I don’t mind if you need to go out and sleep with other people. I get it.”

 

Sam looks away, jealous thoughts running rampant in his head. Yeah, sure, Sam, it’s perfectly fine to have your brother come home to you smelling of someone else.

 

Silence spreads across the room like mist in a horror movie, and Sam doesn’t look at Dean’s face. He has no idea how Dean’s taking this, if Dean will refuse to understand or if he’ll leave. The worst-case scenario Sam can see is Dean bluntly telling him it’s definitely a deal breaker, but Sam refuses to think about that for too long. 

 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Dean says, and Sam’s heart drops into his feet. He swallows thickly, face burning even hotter.

 

“I don’t know what I was thinking all those times I made fun of you,” Dean says, and Sam looks up. “Like. You never showed that much interest in sex, and it’s not like you were really embarrassed about it, but I kept egging you on, you know? Callin’ you a prude. I never really thought about it. I guess I just assumed that under all of it you were the same as me. But thinking on it for a minute made me realize how royally stupid that is.”

 

Sam cracks a smile, hardly daring to breathe with all the relief flooding through him. He doesn’t want the waterworks to start, not over this conversation, of all things.

 

Dean sighs, squeezing into Sam’s space and pressing a rough, closed-mouth kiss to his temple. “I’m not the only royally stupid one, though, you idiot. If you thought the only thing keepin’ me with you was the promise of regular, fantastic sex, then you’ve gotta start thinking more highly of me, kid. You’re not some piece of ass to me. Lord no.”

 

Dean draws out the last part to ensure that Sam knows it’s a joke, but Sam feels crappy anyway. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking at Dean with earnest eyes. “I know it wouldn’t have been a deal breaker, I just thought you might not understand, you know? That you might think I’m more of a freak than ever.”

 

“Sam.” Dean reprimands sternly. “You’re not a goddamn freak. If anything, I’m probably the weirdo Duchovny. Most people want a stable relationship, Sammy, or at least they act like they do. That’s what you’ve been after your whole life. And if you want that with me, then hell yeah, I’m game. I can take it slow. I can take it not at all if that’s what makes you happy.”

 

Sam can’t help the wide smile that springs across his face. God, Dean is just. He’s perfect for Sam, and that’s so silly to think about, so cliche, but nothing in his life has ever been more true. Dean starts smiling back, the happiness contagious, and for awhile, they just look at each other, grateful they’re still a unit, still on the same page, still share a language of love.

 

“Just you wait,” Sam says, breaking the silence, “when it happens, if it happens, your brain will melt out every orifice in your face.”

 

Dean laughs in a short, bright jolt. “You think I’m gonna be the one who’s a mess? Hmm, Sammy, I might revise that one.”

 

Sam shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Shut up, jerk.”

 

Dean’s eyes get even softer and he reaches up with his free hand to carefully brush the stray strands out of Sam’s face. “Bitch,” he says, then leans in to kiss Sam softly on the lips.

 

Sam kisses back with all he’s got, saying thank you with his mouth.

 

***

 

Sam thinks that despite all the garbage that’s hit him, all the setbacks and curses and things, he’s got an okay life. He reminds himself on a daily basis, more than once if things get particularly dark and stormy. He can do this. They can do this. They can fight their way to the other side and make it out to see a better world. They can finish what their dad started.

 

Things are smooth sailing after that, besides all the normal quips and teasing, of course. Nothing will stop Dean from mocking Sam’s food choices and Sam doesn’t think he can ever quit reprimanding Dean for some of his less civilized habits, but that’s just par for the course. 

 

They head out toward Illinois the next day, chasing an incredibly vague lead from a local newspaper near Chicago. Sam likes cities. He hopes they get a small break to explore the parks and piers. 

 

For right now, though, the road is their home. The Impala streaks across the country without a care in the world. Dean plays tape after tape of classic rock. Sam knows it’s impossible, even given what he knows about the world, but sometimes he feels like Dean’s favorite songs make the world go by faster, pushing them to their destination. 

 

Sam yawns, stretching his toes out until they bump into the footwell. He looks out the window, blinking slowly, the lull of the road making him drowsier and drowsier. 

 

Dean turns the volume down, eyes still on the road, still humming along to the latest Led Zeppelin song. 

 

Sam stretches out and lists toward Dean. His head bumps against Dean’s shoulder. He keeps going down, shuffling onto his hip and pulling his legs up onto the seat. He barely fits like this, squeezed onto the bench seat with his head in Dean’s lap, but it’s totally worth the minute discomfort.

 

Dean’s humming pauses for a split second before he continues, one hand leaving the steering wheel to rest on Sam’s head and scratch lightly at his scalp. 

 

Sam sighs in pleasure, looking up at the smile on Dean’s face.

 

Dean looks down at him, and Sam’s heart fills to bursting with emotion at the vulnerable look on his brother’s face. “Go to sleep, Sammy,” says Dean softly. His eyes go back to the road and his free hand moves to Sam’s jaw, gently tracing the line of it.

 

Sam closes his eyes and shifts, trying to get comfortable. Dean’s soothing, wandering hand is a soporific rivaled by none. “G’night, Dean,” he says, breathing in the most familiar scent of his life. He’s safe. He’s loved. His thoughts drift and mesh into cottony nothingness, bringing him closer and closer to dreamland, but he still has enough of his wits about him to hear Dean’s quiet words.

 

“Good night, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, and continues driving, on and into the moonlit night.

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> There definitely needs to be more ace and demi Sam in the world! I love all queer Sam headcanons, and I hope I get to write a whole bunch more :)
> 
> Thank you again to Katja (sparktoafire) for the commission, it means a lot.  
> AO3 made me delete my little spiel about commissions on my blog, which I think is crap, but hey. This message technically is just as well :/
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who read, y'all are the best, and your comments make my day. <3


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